Long Quietus Poems | Poetry

Long Quietus Poems. Below are the most popular long Quietus by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Quietus poems by poem length and keyword.

See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Vicki Acquah | Details

ESCHATOLOGICAL

Everyday living becomes more of a truculent battle;
Where survival stands in the way of my living.
While Instinctively trying to live.
I need eyes in the back of my head,
while scratching out a meager existence.
Predators pulling us back from our every advancement:
The outside problem is watching,
the visceral actions of the tortured.
Those who destroy this earth then
fatuously charge us to live on it.
Witnessing one act after another,
of those reaping that which they have not sown.
Watching the ecocatastrophes
destroy the balance of nature relentlessly.
Rent Due, because we who labor;
Own Nothing - Be Taxed if you do, 
be dammed if you try.
My internal problems have worsened
from the external perennials of injustices which surround me..
Leaving me to dwell beneath the deleterious,
Also take example from those with lesser insight and intellect.
Blubbering, blithering, chicanery is going on,
while most recently we’ve been awakened
By snakes slithering into our homes,
pretending to need a nap, or some rest.
We become the test dummy, for once he crosses
our threshold we are weakened.
Why let them in you ask?
Because he seemed so familiar.
Of course, I recognized the way he slithered.
He is your seed or the fruit of my womb.
He has been here before,
recidivist, is his rancored behavior,
it brings undue guilt to those who,
Feel Love for him. When the system gave him back;
The automatic response of acceptance is visceral;
After all you gave birth to him,
Before the lobotomy and fake heart was installed,
I gave him a life.
But I gave him no eschatological, directions spiritually,
I was yet caught up in believing my innate feelings;
Still, I gave him, open minded answers;
He had no conclusion but to call on the power within him.
We all fatuously, and desperately seek spiritual help,
as we reach our breaking points.
We all must at some point, point our inward
thoughts in an upward direction.
No matter if we think it’s pointless.
Not, we’ll have nowhere to turn, no one to cry to,
answer to, or no God of our own to pray to.
Now, feeling frustrated and meaningless,
we become prey, or prey upon others.
Until the worthy ones steal away into the quietus of silence and transcend.
Those wicked incorporeal souls should wander aimlessly throughout the abyss,
seeking mercy’s kiss: Until they've paid their just dues, the just will not rest.
Until the debts from their draconian deeds have been paid in full.
let them be stay weary and eat dust, and be aggravated
until the God of mercy declares victory over their callous hearts.
Only then shall the weary be avenged, and rule this earth again.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2017

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2017


Long poem by Vicki Acquah | Details

ESCHATOLOGICAL

ESCHATOLOGICAL

Everyday living becomes more of a truculent battle;
Where survival stands in the way of my living.
While Instinctively trying to live.
I need eyes in the back of my head,
while scratching out a meager existence.
Predators pulling us back from our every advancement:
The outside problem is watching,
the visceral actions of the tortured.
Those who destroy this earth then
fatuously charge us to live on it.
Witnessing one act after another,
of those reaping that which they have not sown.
Watching the ecocatastrophes
destroy the balance of nature relentlessly.
Rent Due, because we who labor;
Own Nothing - Be Taxed if you do, 
be dammed if you try.
My internal problems have worsened
from the external perennials of injustices which surround me..
Leaving me to dwell beneath the deleterious,
Also take example from those with lesser insight and intellect.
Blubbering, blithering, chicanery is going on,
while most recently we’ve been awakened
By snakes slithering into our homes,
pretending to need a nap, or some rest.
We become the test dummy, for once he crosses
our threshold we are weakened.
Why let them in you ask?
Because he seemed so familiar.
Of course, I recognized the way he slithered.
He is your seed or the fruit of my womb.
He has been here before,
recidivist, is his rancored behavior,
it brings undue guilt to those who,
Feel Love for him. When the system gave him back;
The automatic response of acceptance is visceral;
After all you gave birth to him,
Before the lobotomy and fake heart was installed,
I gave him a life.
But I gave him no eschatological, directions spiritually,
I was yet caught up in believing my innate feelings;
Still, I gave him, open minded answers;
He had no conclusion but to call on the power within him.
We all fatuously, and desperately seek spiritual help,
as we reach our breaking points.
We all must at some point, point our inward
thoughts in an upward direction.
No matter if we think it’s pointless.
Not, we’ll have nowhere to turn, no one to cry to,
answer to, or no God of our own to pray to.
Now, feeling frustrated and meaningless,
we become prey, or prey upon others.
Until the worthy ones steal away into the quietus of silence and transcend.
Those wicked incorporeal souls should wander aimlessly throughout the abyss,
seeking mercy’s kiss: Until they've paid their just dues, the just will not rest.
Until the debts from their draconian deeds have been paid in full.
let them be stay weary and eat dust, and be aggravated
until the God of mercy declares victory over their callous hearts.
Only then shall the weary be avenged, and rule this earth again.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2017


Long poem by Ajayi Angel-Simon | Details

A REQUIEM TO MY PRECIOUS LEGS

A REQUIEM TO MY PRECIOUS LEGS: ELEGY TO MY PARENTS

FREE VERSE FOR MUM
My birth remark reads:
                                     You tramped for a season
                                          With a puffy trunk
                                      Along dangerous paths—
                              Waded on puddles and quagmire,
                                    Scuffed your flat feet and 
                          Trampled it on serpents and scorpions
                                 To bid my glorious existence…

I lost my balance
When I felt your expiration from my pubis.
I staggered in pain
Like a fowl stripped off by fierce breeze.

                                                    My physique—
Which a thousand-and-one-princesses adore—
                                                       Is distorted.
The trunk you both carry—
Through rocky hills and sloppy mountains—
Is now an elephantine for the other leg.

Oh! Your cessation is at break of dawn
      You danced to the tune that glooms souls
           You are bereft of ambling
                 On such and such burg…
                        You hurried for the Golden City.

The scorch sun and mild moon cloy
You take pleasure in the one-off of quietus…

With streams of briny water
Rolling down my cheek,
I watched you wriggling helplessly to and fro—
After being ricocheted on Death's spindly pole:
Death clasped your brawny brittle bones.
You swell, swelter, near bursting,
Impatient for suppuration in your crimson attire.

                                         Farewell!
                            You scoot the living abode
                          On mutilated soles and toes;
                                                                                 My precious leg!
                                                                         In your gracefulness,
                                                                   I created beautiful traits.
                                                 I'm left limping as you're supplanted
                                       By quasi-legs and crutches.
Will you ever return?
Even in posterity…   

HAIKU FOR DAD
                                       Dad! Why? Another crutch?
                                            Both legs amputated
                                 You couldn't stay; you loved mum.
Your Love, Angel Simon.
On Christ The Solid Rock I Stand...*tears*

Copyright © Ajayi Angel-Simon | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Jeff Kantor | Details

A love story

Her beauty will be known for all the ages,
Deserving of its story in these pages.
A fathomless flame in eternity rages.
A rhapsody is her name sung by Angels.

Silken hair matching the suns golden hue.
Mirror the seven seas eyes the purest blue.
Modigliani muse so natural so true.
She arrested my heart then rendered it in two.

She lured me in then toyed with me freely.
I believed I was hers, so very nearly.
With all my heart I loved her dearly.
But I was her plaything, so very clearly.

We shared a bed though not the same dream.
The taste of her tongue was
strawberries and cream.
My body and hers came together one scream.
My life was complete, or so it would seem.

Her fancy filled, a fling and nothing more.
My efforts and charms would win I was sure.
But she told all n sundry our time was a bore.
It meant simply nothing, she would see me no more.

Desired by many, though kept by none.
Boundless energy, flirtatious with some.
I beckoned, I wooed, I always left numb.
Heart foresaken wishing quietus come.

Fullness of body and bosom blinding.
I gave my heart, my Love was binding.
Rejection complete, abject despair finding.
Broken battered soul sick from deriding.

The heavens laughed to the depths of Hades.
In a wonderful world so many sweet ladies.
Loving their man and giving him babies.
The beauty I love is diseased like rabies.

Blackness eminates from the depth of her soul.
The beauty of skin has eaten me whole.
I must rid the world of this cancerous mole.
Then place her allure deep dark in a hole.

Find me her body so soul I can send.
To hell with me, eternal fire we shall tend.
Yet try as might to put her to the end.
A spell she had cast, my will could not bend.

I loved her more than my life in this world.
A viscious plan waits for me to unfurl.
Mind bent, heart broke by this pretty little girl.
Yet frozen I was against harming this pearl.

Buried in my minds blizzard of desire.
Was my lust for life, lost in a mire.
My quest for destruction of her I now tire.
Desperate last actions of mine are dire.

End my suffering, I willendeavour.
Of this I will take no great pleasure.
For I cannot live without my hearts treasure.
I sup this elixir and await the seizure.

Heart stomped has stopped at last,
Bitter breath attacks its last gasp,
Voice broken scratches one last rasp,
Life done torment finally past.


Copyright © Jeff Kantor | Year Posted 2018

Long poem by Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings | Details

Before My Pen Is Hushed


      Before my flowing, poetic pen is hushed in Quietus,
And I have reached my journey's end with folded hands;
            Departed into my dreamless sleep beneath violets,
Let me write one everlasting, eternal, immortal verse;
                  Of the ravaged garden of my life.

      I want to hear a bird song when I quietly glide away,
With a sigh, I will lay my pale form down peacefully;
            I have willed my Keepsakes and my musing poems,
The Angel of death, will take my hand into another realm;
                  And the drums of time will cease.

      Oh, it has been a life full of happiness entwined with sad,
I have travelled many different roads to get to Tranquillity;
           The chapters of my life are full of the dead and undead,
Memories of childhood, family, friends and pets I loved;
                  The scars of life stab my soul.

      I do not fear death and I am ready to go through the gate,
But I will miss nature, the woods and the waters moving;
            And as I walk the silent passage alone to my eternal night,
Think of me as being set free and soaring high up above;
                  I lived a life weather-stained with tears.

      Leaving life is something we all must do; it is written,
I was held by a thread in this earthly realm until that last gasp;
            Now, all I know is the peacefulness of a leafy tree above,
Drifting blue clouds and rain falling gently on my resting place;
                  I was a shadow on the wall of time.

      Do not weep over my eternal grave heartbroken my dears,
I have followed the beautiful Angels footsteps to heaven;
           My poetry is timeless, ageless, and will always remain,
I have shed this earth bound life and I am a butterfly set free;
                  I drank from the deep blue cup of life.

      So come, dear hearts and plant some pretty flowers in Spring,
I am at last united with all my beloved who have gone before;
             Touch my name and remember me for my beauty,
And although my life was but a whisper, I loved every moment;
                  Now, I exist in another realm.

____________________
August 26, 2015

Epic


Submitted to the Premiere Contest Number Five
Sponsor, A Skat

Tenth Place

Copyright © Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Gregory R Barden | Details

Out Of Quietus


No ... there would be no happy end to this story ...

No shining horizon or shimmering visions of tomorrow,
No joyous rhapsody of angels to greet us at the end of THIS tunnel.
The Big Apple was behind us now, fallen to the horrors of the epidemic ...
A gestation period of merely thirty seconds,

Which meant half the globe - half of humanity -
Could be firmly in its grip within 48 hours ...
Just two days! (And that was an optimistic estimate).
I worked for the CDC, but was on vacation with my family ...

My wife, two daughters, one son,
In Manhattan to see "Hamilton" on Broadway.
We were headed back to The Plaza when it happened -
When the first infected folks started to turn.

Whatever it was, it increased metabolism in the host,
As though giving people super powers,
Making them faster, stronger, more erratic, more deadly ...
One bite to the skin, and within half a minute, the person would change ...

Transform, into these ... monsters, crazy eyes and gnashing teeth,
With only one drive and purpose - to bite flesh and spread contagion,
(And the possibilities of mutations were nearly fathomless).
Nature always protects itself ... always finds a way,

And diseases and microorganisms are PART of nature.
Like good bacteria, viruses seek out highly beneficial environments,
And this one had selected the most deadly and formidable of hosts - humans.
On the other end of this long tunnel under the Hudson, was New Jersey ...

We were headed south to Atlanta and CDC headquarters,
But that was an eternity from where we were,
With untold dangers and obstacles ahead,
And in the midst of this horrifying and virulent plague.

The tunnel was empty, thankfully, and dark,
But with a tension-filled quietus that seemed ready to explode.
Our one blessing? It was very early Sunday morning,
And there was little traffic on the highway.

Still, there would be surprises coming, we knew not what ...
Surprises and trials, at the end of this long underpass AND beyond.
We could see the light of the entrance as it drew closer,
We could envision the stress and danger, and feel the cold breath ...

Of doom approaching.




~ 4th Place ~  in the "Tunnel Vision" Poetry Contest, Kai Michael Neumann, Sponsor.

Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2018

Long poem by Subimal Sinha-Roy | Details

Poet In Search Of Poem

Dear Budding Poet,

Modern poetry to me is the reflection of the chaos and
declining intolerance of modern times. It expresses the pent-up 
emotions writhing in complexity trying to embrace our beautiful lives.

I know you’re a budding poet pining to express yourself and 
aspiring to make a mark.  My advice to you would 
be to listen to your heart and transcribe in your own way what 
it says. It’ll become a poem because your heart is the window
on the world through which you perceive the human values taking 
intricate shapes, yarns of emotions weaving tapestry of joy
and grief, and the beauty of life designing ecstasy in your mind. 
Don't ever close this window. You look out at the pristine 
nature and absorb the elegance it frames. You would reach 
the realm of exaltation when your mind would swim on 
imagination. Let it flow in its own course meandering through 
the landscape of your times. Wake up the muse in you and 
let it float. You’ll then find  formless blocks of words appear 
as imagery. You need to use your pen to sculpt from these 
the piece of art, your poetry. 

Poetry in my life is like a perennial fountain drenching my 
parched mind, drowning my sorrow, draining my tears
and satiating me with joy of creation.

My favorite themes : nature, love, emotions, fantasy,
introspection, desire, dream. 

My favorite reference sources : www. howmanysyllables.com,
Cliché Finder, Thesaurus, www.rhymezone.com.

Titles of my favorite poems I’ve written (in order of preference) :
Atmospheric Pressure, Your Lacustrine Beauty, Through 
The Opaque Night, Flowing Silence, As I was Walking In The Snow,
Searching You, Sign of Times, Kite Flies Away From Concrete 
Jungle, Opening The Mind’s Petals, Embrace of Quietus.

My literary background : I’m an Earth Scientist having a doctorate 
degree, published many scientific papers , received national 
awards for research. My parents who were teachers of 
literature infused in me the love for poetry. I started writing poetry 
from high school days, published 4 books of poems. 

Suggestion for book title : “The making of a poet”, 
“Poems in search of a poet”. 

May, 23, 2018. 



Copyright © Subimal Sinha-Roy | Year Posted 2018

Long poem by Robert Ronnow | Details

The Shape of Jazz to Come

Is war coming? Are we headed for another crazy cataclysm?
My sons, draft age. Only now can I appreciate the pain
so sharp it drains the color from one's eyes, your reason
for living gone in a spasm of violence to be forgotten
never by survivors. This fear could become real as no movie
is surreal enough to distract attention from the certainty
you did not do enough to deflect man's trajectory.

All could be well in the end but history portends
a periodic bloodletting followed by a quietus
without mercy. What's the best that can be said:
he died beside his friends and buddies. Steady
on to your own inquest and rest. A perfect rest
that improves upon the inadequacy of your efforts.
What solace can be found in the remains of marriage.

So you better fight back now even if that means
war comes sooner. At least you're fighting back, but how?
Take a minute to meditate on purpose. Science
cannot save you, neither can religion. Abstaining
from violence with love, letting prisoners go, detaining
no one at the border, inviting Chinese and Russian
scientists to our shores, defusing your own anger before it detonates,

none may be enough to save your sons.
A war president needs war, whatever. A trained
and deadly warfighter. You become what history wants
you to become. You survive if you're lucky, if not
so what, your old parents will be alive only briefly to mourn.
Then they too go to their good graves and the pain dies down.
In the meantime a new generation builds a new space station.

Since the vortex will be sucking up the poor,
let's not let the rich escape untouched. All go down
together, no one hoards gold or gets away with fiction.
If we have to fight let's make sure we fight as one,
the sons of the rich side by side with the poor's sons
and their daughters. You want slaughter? Then
let every city and back road know the new order.

I would rather watch Lalaland ten times over than have
to write this poem. I can leave home and live
in a tent or bunkhouse, eat dinner out of a tin cup
and drink water from a wooden bowl, give up
music and most of my memories to save my sons,
to save the world and avoid this war.
But that rarely happens. One is lost and found in what happens.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2018

Long poem by Richard H. Dunsany | Details

Welcome to Murkland

Beneath the River Somnium,
Abandoned Wishes hymn: quiet in the viaduct:

Reverse the Lodestone;
Reverse the First Sin;
Reverse the Autumn Hearse;
Reverse the Universe.

We are the murk men, intangible ends—inebriated together
With Beelzebub our friend. Absolvent now in burning skin, the Piper plays our rudder;
Garudas’ quietus ballroom-mance veils lioness earthbound shudders
Vindicating tincture. 
Come speak as One or risk the Sun 
Melting e’en your physical fixture.

Rainforests, peripheral phantoms
Meshing lanterns; coalescing unwound mummy-cloth sanctums.
Opium deserts, 
Drear-dreaming desolates—we inhale brimstone, we imprison Nymph oxygen
Together Daedelus;
Einstein;
Victor Frankenstein.

Delirium waterfalls brew spirits despite ballets
Heating gloam flintlock
In Nem-kissed cabernets
Cascading pyre dunes endlessly:
Nine inward tales lost in Ambrosia unbelonging,

Scorching any falsely fairer,
Side-thrusting ineffective suffocation
With undead rapiers. Who dares desire to replace You
Shall receive Bubonic nebulas, past arbalest
Exhibiting thrones’ cobalt fire under Babylon’s command,
silent yet laughing always waiting for zero
hands cannot wait they tremble
we dissemble they commend grown avatars
youthful Avatars: hawks circling together,
Smiling, sardonically tired of this world
Trapped within thunder,

As gorgeous black does spool this secret:
Those of us who have strayed from The Path
Disintegrate into cinnamon
For common use. Therein, use the fallen well,
Persephone's stair of the past—   
only in dreams Hades’ Wint has passed
hinterland skies embracing crescents’ fast
below our lone, draped behemoth ‘cross cities’ paradox
in the midst of a nightly, playful wink. 

We daemons tacit vacant love insane.
Alucard, Alistaire, Allwein: Remove your Glove—dispatch that Vein.

Your pact with us has just begun,
Though fear us not, O Clem, who’s won?:
Escape's been reared by us—reality fears Your perennial face;
Your marrow trills—now Murkland strafes:
Quem di diligunt, adolescens moritur;
To siphon Your Color——A New Corridor.

Copyright © Richard H. Dunsany | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Richard H. Dunsany | Details

Do Not Listen, Part III

(The final part of my serial "Do Not Listen" poem. I had written this months ago, but hadn't felt confident about posting it--until now and with a few edits.)

___


Do Not Glisten, Child! of my early past.
Do you still desire to shake this Hand of the Age
so black in depth and red from nightshade?
Rather I would buy you a milkshake from a Rocket's,
and dip for but a short time in our unified happiness. To face or not to face
the sun indifferent as the Boatman?

When she's isles,
the secret plane of reality is that negative abyss, et al..
Destroy all the clocks and time does not fall,
Saturn's mind is a wherewithal, 
the seductive lilting Southern drawl
loots itself a mighty hall…and they act surprised. So very surprised
to see their blue as red on the linoleum floor.

Oh? Had you not predicted thusly,
when you two strode arm-in-arm along the thoroughfare,
with that stupid smile embracing the air? 
And what hear you there? Indeed.
The mermaid's melody, the siren's sonata
all starving for accompaniment: the percussive heartbeat of hope:
Seven kingdoms 
and a last fraying rope. A last

fraying

smile.

Ha ha ha! Why do I laugh? You know full well, but since you've asked!
Black Stereo, black clothes--black month of June! Black Yin
completely black!
Rain thine essences down upon this lowly serf,
show me the footage of a black cat 
with a caramel nose, soul of heaven,
pressing lovingly into my chest, kneading, 
purring and licking my rose
cheeks blooming above dead Western Gilgamesh,
then Garuda me as you open your mouth to dream 
'n' out ‘n’ out ‘n’ out dives soundlessly...

The Unraveling.

I cannot wait for quietus debate, barreling down like 
Do Not Listen. Clog 
goes the weasel,
clogging the years, so silence the seas
and clog your arteries
with this sweetest dessert: iced love drizzled with liquor, sprinkled 
with broken vein glass:

A Nobody’s Wish to Eat.

Copyright © Richard H. Dunsany | Year Posted 2017

Long Poems